


The Altar of the Green Rock

by TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Cold War, Espionage, F/F, Nuclear Weapons, Post-World War II, Soviet Spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:55:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead/pseuds/TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead
Summary: Based on romans-art.tumblr.com 's Soviet Spy AU, with her permission. Force of the "Fat Man" Mark III nuclear device upon detonation: 84 terajoules, equal to about 20,000 tons of TNTForce of the words "I love you": Much, much greater.Dr. Olivia Peridot Marshall and Sargent Lapis Lomidze are about to find this out firsthand.





	1. January 31st, 1947

_“After the thing went off, after it was a sure thing that America could wipe out a city with just one bomb, a scientist turned to Father and said, 'Science has now known sin.' And do you know what Father said? He said, 'What is sin?”_

_-Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle_

 

**Houston, Texas, USA**

**11:00 p.m.**

 

_Dear Mrs. STAR,_

 

_A mutual friend of ours asked me to voice my concerns to you. I don’t write often, but this is important to me, and I’ve scrapped enough letters already, so I suppose I’ll just say what I have to say and not worry so much about whether it’s presentable or not. Here goes._

 

I lit a cigarette. The letter was gone. The deed was done, but the words kept echoing inside my mind like song lyrics.  

 

_My name is Olivia Marshall, but I go by my middle name, Peridot. I was born in Beaumont, Texas, went to college at the University of Houston, and through a program there, I joined the Army Corps of Engineers on my nineteenth birthday. A little while later, I was injured in the line of duty and transferred to Research and Development. I won't bore you with the details of my academic ascent. All you’re interested in is the fact that I played a pivotal role in the development of the Mark III Nuclear Device, codenamed “Fat Man”._

 

I was a traitor. A turncoat. I was a resource, no different than a chunk of plutonium or a barrel of gunpowder.

 

_I am not a very abstract-thinking person by any stretch. I don’t go to church, I don’t wonder about my original purpose in life, and I don’t believe in destiny. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a conscience._

 

After Hiroshima, we were informed by Army leadership that there were no plans to deploy the Mark III. They told us that Japan was ready to surrender. On August 6, 1945, that turned out to be a lie. Trust me, I’ve done my homework. We bombed Hiroshima because any attempt at a traditional invasion would have resulted in military and civilian casualties orders of magnitude more severe for both sides. We bombed Nagasaki because we had an extra bomb lying around. Anyone who says otherwise is lying through their teeth.

A friend I went to highschool with, Jesse Hugh, was a medical officer in the 101st Airborne. He played a role in liberating the concentration camps the Nazis had abandoned as they retreated from France and Poland. The people there had been starving for so long that he had to actually restrict their intake of food so their atrophied stomachs wouldn't burst. He told me, “You can't imagine what it’s like to be able to count a man’s teeth when his mouth is closed, and then look that man in the eye and tell him he can’t eat any more today.”

When my friend Amethyst came back from leave, she told me about the internment camps in the desert, where American citizens, American _civilians_ of Japanese descent were being held like POWs.

I’m not an idiot. I connected the dots.

 

_History is too eager to repeat itself. America is ripe for another Mussolini to take power. Everyone is scared, everyone is angry, and right now we have sole access to the most powerful weapon in existence._

_A nuclear-capable Soviet Union would be the only nation in a position to prevent a fascist United States from destroying anyone and anything it deems a threat. The military men, high on the glory of war and bowing their heads at the altar of the green rock will be taking office soon. As many good people as there are among their ranks, we’ve seen that it only takes one man to do truly unspeakable evil. A painter from Austria only needs a stage and a microphone to become the most vile murderer in the history of man._

 

The cigarette was burning through my fingers. I dropped it on the floor and stamped it out with my replacement leg. It was done. The letter was waiting in a purse underneath a very specific park bench. All I could do was wait.  

 

_You know where to reach me._

_I look forward to your response._

 

_Sincerely, Dr. Peridot Marshall_

* * *

**Grozny Hotel**

**Budapest, Hungary, USSR**

**3:00 a.m.**

 

_Tell them I’ve got nothing to do with that nonsense!_

“Tell them I’ve got nothing to do with that nonsense.”

_That old witch! She’s been out to get me since I started working here!_

“She’s been out to get me since I started working here.”

_Well, Martha? Why don’t you give her a piece of your mind?_

“Why don’t you give her a piece of your mind?”

_I ought to! I really ought to, but…_

“I ought to.”

_But who on earth would take my word over hers? Her husband owned this company before the war!_

“I ought to. Ought. I ought to. I ought to tell her. I...блин. I ought to. I oughta. I ought to. Fuck.”

I took the needle off the record and slumped back in my chair. My accent was as convincing as it was going to get. I looked at my watch. 3 o’clock. Outside, a cat plodded along the length of a fence in search of food. The moon was low in the sky, and the dying streetlights painted the town a dull orange.

It was time to move.

I changed into the dress my handler had picked out for me and folded my extra clothes into a leather-bound suitcase. I left the suitcase open on the bed while I gathered the rest of the essentials: an NR-40 combat knife, a Makarov automatic pistol, two extra magazines, several rolls of American currency, two vinyl records without covers or labels and a microfilm camera made to look like a watch. I closed the case, buckled it shut, and went to the desk on the opposite corner of the room.

I emptied the ashtray into a small trash bin beneath the desk. Then, I scooped the briefing papers into the bin with the ashes, took a small vial from my dress pocket, and emptied it onto the papers. The liquid smelled like vinegar, and when I tossed a lit match into the bin, it hissed for an instant while a bright flash lit up the room. When I opened my eyes, the papers were gone and there was a dark brown film on the edges of the trash bin.

 _Knock knock knock_.

I picked up the suitcase and opened the door. Lieutenant Jasper was standing in the hall, huge and imposing. She made a finger gun gesture at me. “Bang. You’re dead, Lomidze. Maybe the next agent will check who’s at the door before they open it.”

“That’s not my name.” She stared me down. “Anymore,” I added.

The Lieutenant just smiled. “There’s no shame in being the little girl from Georgia. Just like there’s no shame in selling out your comrades to the fascists for an extra crust of bread.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course. I’m being harsh. All you did was escape. That was your duty as a prisoner. Only…did you come back for your comrades? Did you deliver any of the intelligence you gathered to your commanding officer? Or did you run back home to Dmanisi and hope the Nazis would take you back?”

My hands started to shake. I balled them up into fists and hoped Jasper wouldn’t notice.

“The word for that, Sergeant _Lomidze,_ is treason _._ ”

My heart stopped, and my fist moved. There was a loud impact, and Jasper stumbled backward a few half-steps. My knuckles were buzzing.

When she recovered, she took a deep breath and stepped forward. Before I could even register it, she had her massive hands wrapped around my skull, her thumbs resting above my eyes.

“Do you feel better?”

“What?”

Her hands stiffened. She didn't apply any more pressure but I knew that if I moved, she would squash my head like a grape.

“‘What, _Ma’am’_ or ‘what, _Lieutenant’._ I’m asking if you feel better after having hit me, Sergeant. And don't lie to me.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“Ok. Then listen very carefully to me, Lapis. That little outburst was free. Okay? It’s on the house. You’ve been through a lot and you’re about to go through a lot more, so…I’m cutting you a break. Say thank you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome. That’s the last break you’re gonna get from me, understand. I’m your handler. I am not your mother, and I am not your friend. If you fuck up even _once_ …”

She gently rubbed her thumbs along my brow.

“I’ll see to it that the Americans never find your body.”

She released me, and I let out the breath I wasn't aware I’d been holding.

“You have an important flight to catch, agent. Go.”

I nodded and tried to focus on not shaking as I walked down the hall and into the stairwell.

***

The plane was slower, louder and bigger than what I was used to, but the passenger experience was a big step up. There were flight attendants milling about offering drinks and little pre-cooked meals. I drew my knife while no one was looking and carved a huge chunk out of the seat next to me, peeling back the leather to reveal the yellow padding. A few people, men mostly, saw me and came around to sit next to me, but they all decided against it when they saw the chair. I looked out the window at the shrinking skyline of Budapest. Very soon,  the plane would leave Soviet airspace. I would be on my own.

Before I went to sleep, I pulled the photograph of the subject out of my pocket. Even in her official ID picture, she looked like she had just woken up. Her light hair was cut short, but it stuck out wildly, like she’d just gotten inside after a windstorm. I flipped the picture over.

On the back, in my own stiff English handwriting, were notes on the subject.

 

_Dr. Oliva Marshall_

_Goes by “Peridot” (MN)_

_344 Ashwood Drive, Houston, TX_

_No car, you’ll have to rent._

 

I flipped it over again to get one last look at the American scientist. Peridot Marshall. She looked like a child. I couldn’t imagine her holding a gun, much less building the most lethal weapon in human history.

But then, I know better than most how deceiving looks can be.

 


	2. Peridot I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So far as I can see, the atomic bomb has deadened the finest feeling that has sustained mankind for ages. There used to be the so-called laws of war which made it tolerable. Now we know the naked truth. War knows no law except that of might.”  
> -Mahatma Gandhi

**344 Ashwood Drive**

**Apartment 4B**

**Houston, TX, USA**

**8:00 a.m.**

 

That night, I dreamed I was being court-martialed by Betsy Ross and Joseph Stalin. They were  _ grilling _ me, shouting over each other in a language I couldn’t understand, and I was clutching my prosthesis like it was a stuffed animal. They threw pieces of evidence into my lap and demanded I explain. Exhibit A was the Mark III. Exhibit B was my mint-green purse that I’d left underneath a park bench with a letter (Exhibit C) inside. The dream ended when the two of them froze and began counting down in unison. There was a flash of white light, and I woke up on the floor of my apartment.

 

I only had to try to sit up to figure out that I was hungover. My head felt like it was full of ants, and when I moved, they panicked and thrashed around. I smelled like booze and cigarettes and sweat. It was eight in the morning, and I had nothing to do today. Feeling completely justified, I pulled the comforter up to my nose and went back to sleep.

 

**8:15 a.m.**

Someone was knocking on my door. 

 

_ Someone was knocking on my door! _

 

_ Okay, Peridot, just get up, act casual, there’s nothing incriminating in your apartment. You’re clean, you’re good. Well...you’re not  _ clean _ per se, but…  _

I shook my head. The ants began screaming. 

_ Knock knock knock knock knock _

“I’m coming!” I shouted, kicking my comforter aside and stumbling over to the door. Christ, I slept in my prosthesis again. I needed to start remembering to take it off before I start drinking. Whoever was outside kept knocking. I knocked back, to shut ‘em up. “Gimme a second!”

I struggled with the door chain for a bit before I remembered that I was planning to commit high treason, and should probably screen my guests a little better. I opened the door only as far as the chain would let me, and peeked through the gap. 

Outside, there was woman about my age looking at a piece of paper in her hand. She was wearing a heavily starched baby blue dress and had one hand resting on her hip. She would have looked like she had emerged fully formed from a vacuum cleaner ad in Time Magazine if it weren’t for the dark circles under her eyes.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Are you Dr. Marshall?” 

Her voice was measured and low, strikingly businesslike. 

“I am.” 

She lifted a mint-green handbag into view. “Is this yours?”

My heart stopped. 

I’d never seen that bag in my life, of course. This woman, or whoever she was working for, had probably destroyed my real bag by now. It was the color that caused me to panic and slam the door in her face. This was really happening. 

 

_ Your case is being evaluated. In a few days, a liason will be sent to your door. He or she will be carrying either a green handbag, indicating that you have been accepted, or a red handbag, indicating the opposite. Please do not leave your apartment for the next few days, for security reasons. _

 

I took deep breaths, undid the chain and opened the door. “Come in. Can I get you anything?”

The liason crossed the threshold and looked around at the empty bottles and shot glasses that littered the floor. I shut the door and watched her emerald eyes drift to the overflowing ashtray, then to the foul-smelling stain on the carpet, then to the heap of blankets, sheets and pillows that I’d obviously slept on. 

“Nice place.”

I sighed. “Look, are you gonna snark, or are you gonna help me?”

She reached into another pocket and pulled out a set of keys on an aluminum ring. “Go wait in the green car. I’ll come get you when I’m done here.”

“ _ What?  _ Done with what?”

“Checking for microphones.”

My blood went cold.

“Are you serious?”

She started unscrewing the lightbulb on my desk lamp. “Yep.”

“You’re saying that someone might have been listening to me for the last week?”

“It’s possible.”

I had to lean against the door. “I’m gonna throw up.”

“Yeah, I meant to ask, are you drunk?”

“It’s been a stressful week!” I said defensively. “I needed to take the edge off! You’re Russian, right? You should understand.”

“One, I’m from Cincinnati. Two, I don’t drink. Go take a cold shower, I’m not gonna deal with you like this.”

“Don’t give me that holier-than-thou…” I trailed off. My head was throbbing, and my mouth felt like sand.

“Go shower.”

“Yeah, okay.”

I could  _ hear _ her grinning, and I wanted to knock her teeth out.


	3. Lapis I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What a curious picture it is to find man, homo sapiens, of divine origin, we are told, seriously considering going underground to escape the consequences of his own folly.”  
> -J. William Fulbright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse. I had this chapter written out but I didn't want to post it until I knew where the story was going. I still don't know where the story is going. This chapter is also pathetically short, so I'm really doing a great job of stepping on my loyal readers' faces. Sorry guys. You know I love you.

It took about an hour and a half of searching every corner of the doctor’s one-room apartment before I was satisfied that no one had bugged it. That was number one on the to-do list. Number two was attending to the well-being of my new charge. I knocked on the door of the bathroom. 

“Don’t come in!” she shouted. 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just don’t come in!”

“Yeah, I got that. Are you still in the shower?”

I heard the sound of a valve turning, and the hissing of the showerhead stopped.

“No,” said Peridot.

I grinned. 

“Okay,” I said, “hurry up and get dressed. We’ve got places to be.”

“Lemme brush my teeth, at least.”

I sighed audibly and started gathering up the shot glasses and bottles strewn all over her desk. The puke stains by the bed would have to wait until after we got back.

“Hey, what’d you say your name was?” Peridot asked, her voice garbled by the toothpaste.

“Lapis. Lapis Lazuli.”

“And that’s your real name?”

I thought about it. It was the name that was on all my identification papers, my bank account and my passport, but none of those were technically legitimate. Back in Russia, all records of my military service are under the name Lapis Constantinova Sokolov, but that’s not my real name either, or not the one I was born with, at least. 

“So that’s a no?”

I snapped out of my reverie. “It’s a yes as far as you are concerned.” 

“All right. Hey,”--she spit into the sink--“where are we going today, anyway?”

“We need to go to the county clerk’s office to get a marriage license.”

The door opened with more force than the human body should have been capable of producing. Peridot, one of the most distinguished metallurgists of her generation, stood there, braced against the doorway with her arms, foaming at the mouth and wrapped in a brown towel. 

“Please tell me you didn’t just say--”

“Marriage license, yeah. That’s gonna be our cover. We’re getting married in Beaumont on the twenty-first, honeymooning in New Mexico, and then you’re gonna go back to work in Los Alamos because it’s close and it pays well, and because no one’s going to think it’s weird that you’re taking your gorgeous new wife to work every day for a couple of weeks.”

The toothbrush fell from her mouth and clattered against the bathroom floor.

“Get dressed,” I said, and closed the door. 

“But...I...you can’t…did you at least get me a ring?”


End file.
